


Blood Red And Emerald Green

by SunshineChild



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: First Meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 03:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11935344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunshineChild/pseuds/SunshineChild
Summary: Why did Clint spare Natasha's life?This is a taster for the new story I'm planning all about Natasha's journey through Shield.





	Blood Red And Emerald Green

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 'testing the water' fic for the story I'm planning about Natasha's journey through Shield. Her relationships with Clint, Fury, Phil etc, and her struggle with guilt. Please comment your thoughts whether this story would interest anyone. I know there are lots of stories about Natasha and Clint's first meeting but not so much about her growth/therapy/struggle with Shield.

The cramped hotel room remained silent. The only noticeable sounds coming from the two lone occupants; heavy breathing filling the room creating a sharp atmosphere, both of them ready to pounce. Predator and prey. 

Hawkeye’s piercing blue eyes remained steady. His bow held securely despite the searing pain emitting from his twisted left wrist. His second arrow perfectly aimed towards his target standing a mere distance in front of him. His first arrow was currently imbedded in her right shoulder, effectively pinning her to the wall. She was trapped. He had won. Not easily, but he had won. 

So, yes, maybe she had been previously injured before their showdown, but he’s not one to focus on the insignificant details. 

She has been staring at him for the past 6 minutes and 32 seconds. Unchanging and unmoving. Now, he’s not one for intimidation but after the struggle she just put him through, he can’t help but feel anxious. She should be dead by now, but she’s not. He should kill her, but he can’t. This mission seemed so simple. Get in, kill the bad guy, get out. Done and dusted, home in time for supper. And yet here he is, pointing an arrow at her heart even though he knows he’ll never be able to shoot it.

It’s the eyes. 

The infamous Black Widow. Killer of hundreds, master manipulator, capable of bringing nations to their knees, turns out to be a young petite girl with eyes that scream pain. To anyone else, her eyes may appear indifferent or even bored. But he knows what pain looks like. There is something else present in those green, green eyes. It chills him to the core when he realises; she wants this. She’s been waiting for this moment. She is looking death right in the eye and welcoming it. It is pain, and it is desperation. Desperation to die. Desperation to leave this world of killers and blood and cruelty. Desperation for this all to be over. For the first time in years, Clint’s focus waivers. He feels sick. What has happened to this girl?

He doesn’t know much about her past, just that it wasn’t exactly to be desired. She can’t be much older than 18 years old. How does someone so young get eyes like that?

She’s still staring. Expression completely unreadable. Her once heavy breathing has returned to normal, despite the several injuries she has sustained. Clint, on the other hand, is still exhausted, but like hell is he going to let her know that. But he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she already did. Damn, she was good.

He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t leave his mission uncompleted. That’s not who he is. He pledged his allegiance three years ago to Shield and he’s not throwing that away for anything. It changed his life for the better. He owes them so much. But just as he’s attempting to calm his mind and prepare for the inevitable termination of his target, something catches his eye. 

The light in the room has shifted with the impending start of a new day, highlighting the girl and now revealing the pale skin of her arms. And the fading scars littering her arms. They’re too clean. Too precise. Too orderly. He swallows. And now with the morning light trickling into the hotel room, he knows what he has to do.

He lowers his bow.


End file.
